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suicide poetry

je ne puis pas vous dire maintenant
la nuit était noire et triste
complètement des larmes
allés sont les trois, ces soeurs rares
et pain de breaketh pas plus
je suis le vent qui hésite
ce qui je vous doivent
un orage monte sur la marée
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
elle a éclaté le vin féroce
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée

 



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